


Time Heals Nothing

by Saoirse_Laochra



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Language, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saoirse_Laochra/pseuds/Saoirse_Laochra
Summary: His litany of pleas drop down into barely audible mumbling, as he clutches his hands to his chest, blood still slowly oozing its way from where his fingertips were supposed to be; from the cuts on his face, from the shattered remnants of his nose, from his chest. His face is just a mess of blood, bruises, and swollen flesh –given the amount of blood still trickling down, Clarke briefly wonders about blood loss, and how long he’s been free.Or- Canon Divergence, when John escapes from the Grounder Camp, and Clarke and Bellamy find him.





	1. Chapter 1

“Please, I told them everything! I promise, I didn’t _hide_ anything! Please, please, please, please…”

His litany of pleas drop down into barely audible mumbling, as he clutches his hands to his chest, blood still slowly oozing its way from where his fingertips were supposed to be; from the cuts on his face, from the shattered remnants of his nose, from his chest. His face is just a mess of blood, bruises, and swollen flesh –given the amount of blood still trickling down, Clarke briefly wonders about blood loss, and how long he’s been free.

But when she tries to look at the source for the blood, slowly reaching her hands out to touch his face, he falls apart. Instead of muttered begging, full-throated screams and sobs rip from his thin, broken chest as he throws himself back as far as he can in the cramped confines of the little ship.

“No, no, no! You promised, you _promised_ , no more! You said so! You _said_! Don’t! Please! No! Don’t you _fucking_ touch me! I won't tell you anything!”

Instantly, Clarke pulls back, his words biting at her very core.

“Murphy? Hey, it’s okay,” She says gently, scooting forward slowly, holding her hands out in front of her. “We’re not gonna hurt you. I just wanna see if you’re okay, alright? Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

She finally gets close enough to touch him, which he allows, with a flinch, shying away from her without actually moving. But when she moves her hands to his face, gently feeling her way from his jaw up to his eyes –praying that they’re both there –he grabs her wrist.

“I _tried_ , Clarke. I didn’t want to tell them. I _tried_. But they… It was… I knew you weren’t comin’ for me. I didn’t… Didn’t have… I tried, Clarke. I fuckin’ _tried_ , but they just… they wouldn’t… and it seemed like… it was… it never _stopped_ , Clarke, it never stopped, but I fuckin’ _tried_! I tried to hold out as long as I could!”

Despite his weak appearance, his grip was like steel, and Clarke had to pry his hands off. “I know you did, Murphy,” She cooed, petting his hair with one hand. “And you did great, okay? But I’ve got to look you over so we can get you better, alright? I’m just gonna get your shirt off, and –“

“No!” The panicked look returns, and he pulls back away from her sharply, swatting at her hands, tears streaking his face as he continues to swat at invisible hands, muttering ‘no’ over and over again.

Bellamy kneels next to her, his face twisted up in anger. “What did they _do_ to him?”

“They tortured him,” Clarke says shortly. “We need to get him to lay down. I’ve got to look at his wounds.”

Bellamy glances at Murphy, pain shooting through his gaze, before he finally looks back at Clarke.

“You _have_ to?” He asks, his inflection on the middle word confusing her. But she nods anyways, because, _of course_ she has to look him over; bleeding out, infection, sepsis, any and all of these are potential complications. “ ‘Cause I’m gettin’ the feeling there’s only one way we’re gonna keep him still for you to look him over, Princess.”

She hesitates, trying to figure out his meaning, before it dawns on her with sickening, startling clarity. He’s telling her that John is so out of it –in so much pain –that he’s not going to willingly consent to sitting still for her to patch him back up. Even as she thinks it, John catches sight of Bellamy slowly edging closer to him, and he throws himself backwards, bashing his head off of the hull.

“No, no, no, no… I didn’t have a choice, Bell, I swear, I tried not to, I did, I don’t know how long, but I tried, I promise! Please, don’t, please, no…”

Bellamy pulls back, biting his lip hard enough that Clarke can see the pinpoint prick of blood appearing, holding his hands up passively. Murphy stops moving backwards, but his head moves from side to side, his gaze glazed over as he looks everywhere and nowhere at once, his hands picking at the scabs forming on his arms.

“Your call, Princess. Traumatize him worse –and I wasn’t it sure it could _be_ much worse –or risk letting him bleed out.”

All eyes turn towards her, waiting for a decision.

And these are the times that being a leader sucks ass.

 

* * *

 

Murph takes it about as well as Bellamy predicted. He screams and thrashes, begging them to stop before telling them to eff off, he’ll never tell them anything, as Bellamy, Finn, and Jasper half-drag, half-carry him to Clarke’s Med Tent.  Finn and Bellamy are both trying to keep him calm, talking in those soft, quiet voices someone uses for nutters, while Jasper looks like he’s about to lose his lunch. When they get him on the table, Murph’s panic ratchets up about ten notches, and the screaming starts in earnest –full-throated howls that echo throughout the camp, shattering the stillness of the woods, as he starts lashing out, stick thin arms and legs striking out again and again in a desperate bid to free himself.

“Jesus, don’t you have anything to knock him out?” Finn asks desperately, grunting as he catches a foot to the side of the face. “Dammit, Murphy, we’re trying to help!”

Bellamy gives Clarke a desperate, hopeful look. When she bites her lip, shakes her head, he takes a deep breath.

Being the leader means doing what’s necessary, not what’s comfortable.

“I’m sorry, Murph,” He whispers, pushing the hair out of his eyes, moments before he draws his fist back, and lets it connect with the boy’s temple. Instantly, thankfully, John’s body goes limp, and his eyes close.

The other three are staring at him, eyes wide, mouths hanging open.

“Better get to work, Princess,” He says woodenly. “ ‘Cause he wakes up ‘fore you’re done? It’s somebody else’s turn,” He growls. “I ain’t doin’ that again.”


	2. Chapter 2

Murphy is a ghost.

And Bellamy knows, it’s his fault.

Oh, sure: Clarke deserves her fair share of the blame too. But that doesn’t erase _his_ blame. Murphy trusted _him_ ; Murphy had followed _him_ around like a lost puppy dog, doing whatever Bellamy asked, whenever he asked, without question. But when it came right down to it, and Murphy needed Bellamy, Bellamy had stepped back. Said he couldn’t do anything. Wanted to teach Clarke a lesson, and save his own skin.

And, later, when Clarke said banishment… Bellamy knew what that meant. He knew that if a dozen kids couldn’t survive venturing out into the woods, John Murphy wasn’t going to last long before the Grounders killed him. Knew that this was their way of killing Murphy without having to kill him themselves.

But he’d agreed. Said whatever. It didn’t matter. Figured the Grounders would have killed him instantly.

It’d never occurred to him that they might try and get information out of him.

And now, as he watches Murphy hovering by the fence, trying to keep as far away from everyone as possible, he knows that this is all his fault.

Every wound Clarke had stitched, every bandage she applied, every drop of blood she’d cleaned away… It was all on _him_.

And now, when Murphy shuffles around the camp, flinching away from invisible hands, muttering to himself, arms wrapped around his waist protectively… Well, that’s on him too.

Clarke said his wounds would heal; said there probably wouldn’t be any lasting damage, other than the scars themselves.

And she’s probably right; the torture the Grounders inflicted wasn’t meant to maim. It was meant to hurt. Meant to rip and tear, get a sixteen year old boy to talk.

But there will be lasting damage. He’s already seen it, at night, when exhaustion finally drags Murphy into slumber. He tosses and turns, crying out in agony over and over again, hand batting away at the memories, until he wakes with a scream.

How long could he have held out, Bellamy wonders, if he’d known there was no light at the end? That the torture wasn’t going to stop, that no one was coming to save him? That the only thing he was giving up by talking, was the people who’d betrayed and banished him?

Not long. Hell, he knows that if it wasn’t for Octavia, he would give them the entire camp in a heartbeat to save his own ass. He doesn’t care about any of them in more than an abstract way, minus Octavia.

But Murphy held out for _three_ _days_.

The marks they left on him… Bellamy didn’t want to think about what they’d done to cause some of them. Other ones… His mind could too easily think about how they were made.

“Bellamy.”

He turns, spots Raven staring at Murphy.

“What?”

“He’s not eating. And even when we do convince him to eat something, he just… pukes it right back up,” She says, her voice forced casual.

“I… What am I supposed to do?” Bellamy demands, never taking his gaze off of the kid. “How do I fix this?”

The answer, he knows, is simple. Whatever they did to Murphy, it’s not fixable. There’s no ‘saving’ him.

Oh, sure; he’ll probably get ‘better’. Better being a relative term, of course. He might be able to function like normal again; maybe the nightmares will lessen. But he’ll never be Murphy again. Not completely.

Not ever.


End file.
